Scarlett and Frank
by Edirne39
Summary: A brief look at an imagined scene between Scarlett O'Hara and Frank Kennedy, set soon after their marriage. OOC.
1. Chapter 1

She'd never love Frank, she knew this for a fact. But if he'd just stop calling her "Sugar" and maybe develop something of a spine, she could possibly tolerate him. At least for a little while, and then perhaps things wouldn't be too bad.

But then Scarlett would see her marriage to Frank stretching out in front of her for what may as well be an eternity. No war to ship him off to, with the possibility of his never returning, no particular ailments, no way out except death, in a future so distant Scarlett couldn't even fathom it. On the days when she couldn't prevent self-introspection, and her thoughts were unwillingly punctured by the reality of her life, she could feel tears well up in her eyes, which she angrily shook away before anyone could notice.

But Frank did notice.

And it was because of Scarlett's rare flashes of vulnerability that he kept trying, and kept hope that one day she'd eventually let her guard down enough, let him help her, and let herself stop fighting. Frank Kennedy may have been slightly dense, but he wasn't a complete fool. The realization that Scarlett only married him for his money, and lied about Suellen's feelings had left a bitter taste in his mouth. But the marriage was a done deal, and he resolved to let go of his anger and betrayal and make the best of the years he'd have with Scarlett. And on days when her green eyes stood out, surrounded by hastily shed tears, he was determined to help her get rid of her own feelings of bitterness, disappointment and heartache as well. He knew if she'd only let herself, together they could move past all the destruction wrought by the War, and have bright, if unplanned, future together.

* * *

Frank well remembered the first night he truly believed there was a chance for him and his new wife. Scarlet had spent another ridiculously long day at work, dividing her time between the mills and the store. She'd been typically cross with him and, as was becoming habit, quickly retired to her study to pour over her precious ledgers. Finally resigning himself to another evening alone, Frank went to bed. However, that night he couldn't sleep and instead of remaining in his cold bed in a futile attempt to find peace, he wandered downstairs to the library.

Seating himself at the old upright pianoforte he absently plunked out a few random notes. Without even realizing it he began playing song after song; forgotten melodies that had been locked in the back of his memory, which over the years had been replaced by more pressing thoughts of survival. All these old songs came rushing back to him, and with them a sense of peace and comfort he hadn't felt since before the war. The music drowned out memories and images of bloody battles, and horses screaming in pain, and too young boys beating on drums, urging men to commit horrendous acts, no longer fighting for their country, but merely for their survival.

It was a long while before he noticed the shadow cast on the opposite wall. Not daring to risk a look, but knowing instinctively that it was Scarlett who was perched on the steps, clinging to the darkness, and silently listening to him play. Wishing to prolong the moment as long as possible, wondering if it was bringing her the same serenity it brought him, he kept playing. But all too soon his fingers tires, struck the wrong chord, and stopped, hovering uncertainly over the keys.

Scarlett's shadow was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: For this chapter I've used a few lines, both dialog and description, from the novel, and found it sort of helped to keep the tone relatively true and consistent. Those lines aren't mine, but the rest is. Enjoy!

She would miss him. She knew no one would really believe that she'd miss her recently deceased husband; she had a hard time believing it herself. If anyone had told her two years ago that she would grow to, well…care for Frank Kennedy, the old-maid in britches, she would have thought them downright crazy.

But she did care.

Hoping to dull the ache caused by the sweet memories of happy moments with Frank, Scarlett downed another glass of brandy and tried to focus on his faults. Tried hard to push to the forefront of her mind the fact that he as a mealy mouthed pushover who had no business sense, forced motherhood on her yet again, and tried to restrain her independence. She knew all too well the false pretenses and false starts of her marriage. And it hurt less to remember that, rather than to remember quiet nights the two of them would spend alone, sitting side by side on the cushioned mahogany bench, bonding over etudes and …

The knocker on the front door hammered with a dull sound that made the still house echo. She wondered incuriously who it was and when a man's voice, resonant and drawling rose above Pitty's funeral whispering, she knew. Hell's bells, it was Rhett. Quickly splashing cologne on herself to mask the smell of brandy, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. It was obvious she'd been crying, though she hadn't realized she was; she only hoped Rhett would act like a gentleman, just this once, and refrain from commenting on … everything.

Aunt Pitty and Rhett had remained standing in the hallway, so once the older woman left, Scarlett led Rhett into the library. She didn't want to go back to the parlor; she could still see the coffin in that room.

Once ensconced in the library Rhett led her to the rosewood sofa and she sat down in silence.

"May I close the doors?"

She nodded and Rhett drew the sliding doors together. When he came back and sat down beside her, his dark eyes alertly searching her face, quickly sensing something was troubling Scarlett.

"What's the matter, honey?"

* * *

It had been another long and rather unsatisfactory day, and all Scarlett wanted was to fling herself into her bed and submit to a, hopefully, dreamless sleep. She was just dozing off when the vague sound of music began entering her subconscious. She stirred, without fully awaking; not being alert enough to block out her feelings, the music began bringing old memories to the surface. Unable to remain in bed she threw her wrapper on, opened the door and crept downstairs.

In the soft light she saw Frank hovering near the old piano, an item she had once thought to be a ridiculous expenditure. How was it that in a few short months it had come to be the most important thing in the household?

Gently seating herself next to her husband on the rickety bench that really was too small for two people, she watched his hands move expertly over the keys and, not for the first time, thought that Frank had missed his calling. He would have been happiest as a musician; a dreamy profession that could bring pleasure to others was a perfect fit with his good natured personality. And while she would never admit it, these evenings did bring her pleasure, and a sense of calm that was foreign to Scarlett's passionate nature, but which she strangely welcomed and looked forward to.

Frank languidly moved his hands to the higher register on the keyboard, a silent invitation for her to join in the next song. A well practiced duet, with four hands moving in perfect synchronization, occasionally touching when they both reached for the middle keys. Scarlett's technical skill was nowhere near Frank's but she covered it by playing passionately. Their sounds blended together seamlessly, each making up for the shortcomings of the other.

They didn't speak to each other, but during these few hours in the dark night they didn't need to; somehow they understood each other completely. Frank knew the power the old songs had over Scarlett, allowing her to think of happier times without actually making her analyze the changes in her life. So for a few nights each month he would lure her downstairs, both knowing full well she couldn't resist this siren call that was his and his alone.

The room began to grow lighter, the shadows started to recede, and the comfortable silence slowly faded away. They could now look the other in the eye without any barriers between them. Seeing herself reflected in Frank's iris always unnerved Scarlett and she pulled her fingers from the piano as though they burned. Rising quickly she bustled away, desperate to leave before the sun lit the room completely. Frank remained at the piano however, and began another tune, causing her to pause briefly in the doorway before heading out. The lilting melody of her favorite song escorted her up to the bedroom, and as she resettled she left the door open, unwilling to break the tenuous contact that echoed with the peaceful room downstairs.

* * *

"What the matter, honey? Can't you tell me?" he took her hand, oddly gentle.

Rhett's seemingly earnest question snapped her out of her daydream. What's the matter? What isn't the matter. The thoughts of those oft repeated evenings still fresh in her mind left Scarlett with a hint of a smile and a hint of tears. But she couldn't reveal them to Rhett; not that he'd believe her if she did, but somehow to speak of the closeness she occasionally shared with Frank, to bring it out to the open just didn't seem fitting. She wanted to keep it to herself, sweet swirling dreamlike instances that only she knew of; that were safe from Rhett's sarcastic grin and mocking words. So she spoke half of the truth:

"I'm afraid I'll die and go to hell."

Scarlett didn't really pay much attention to the conversation that followed; she seldom fully understood what Rhett was talking about anyway, and she wasn't quite yet ready to let go of tender thoughts of Frank. Right now they were immediate and near, but she knew that with time she'd lose those memories just as she lost all her other fond memories, of youth and childhood and innocence, of the South and life before the war, memories she could no longer allow herself the luxury of reliving. Too soon she'd have to give up Frank as well, and condemn him to the graveyard in her mind, where all her good intentions and joy seemed destined to go.


End file.
